


Movement

by WildnessBecomesYou



Series: Music is Not the Food of Love, but the Messenger [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale essentially being a Dom, Crowley is still a little insecure, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, club dancing!!!!, guess what it's another songfic, i mean it's slightly sexy fluff, is anyone really surprised tho, smut implied, sometimes aziraphale is mildly jealous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 13:55:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19297105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildnessBecomesYou/pseuds/WildnessBecomesYou
Summary: So move me, babyShake like the bough of a willow treeYou do it naturallyMove me, baby





	Movement

**Author's Note:**

> Another song fic! This time, based on Movement by Hozier (off the Wasteland, Baby! album) and the idea of Top and/or Dom Aziraphale. I am so enamored with dominant Aziraphale, oh my god. 
> 
> I think the fic is helped by listening to the song, or at least knowing it, but it stands on it's own legs fairly well.

Aziraphale did not often dance, but he surely didn’t mind watching others dance. 

Particularly if the one he watched was Crowley. 

There was something fascinating about Crowley dancing. It wasn’t necessarily graceful or elegant— except when it was— but traces of temptation and force and something else were held in Crowley’s movements. 

Something ineffable. 

The angel adjusted his collar. 

This particular club was not something he enjoyed. He would certainly never come here alone, but in the few days since Armageddon-That-Wasn’t, he’d watched the tension build in his demon. A simple flyer for a happy hour here had been all it took for Crowley to suggest them going, and Aziraphale replied, “I’ll go with you, but I won’t be dancing.” 

“You don’t dance,” Crowley had hissed with a smile. His demon trying to tempt him again. 

Aziraphale had placed a hand on Crowley’s shoulder and smiled, ignoring the connotation in his thoughts behind “his demon.” 

Now, he watched his— he really ought to stop doing that— demon, relieving all the built-up tension that comes with saving the world. 

The club was very hot (likely a consequence of all the bodies crammed into it), very loud (lovers, friends, and music, where did he fit? He knew, of course), and, if he let his imagination run away, not unlike a place where you might find a rich man ready to partake in sins. Aziraphale was not a man, he supposed he _could_ be rich if he wanted to, but he was very rapidly approaching “ready to partake in sins.” 

Crowley seemed to be enjoying it, at least, glasses firmly in place, hands against the hips of a languid dance partner in front of him. (Aziraphale ignored the twinge of jealousy. It wouldn’t do here. This was for Crowley.) He might not need the glasses here, with the encroaching darkness and flashing lights, but the glasses stayed on even as his dance partner reached behind her to tip them off. 

Perhaps Crowley’s dancing was not as ineffable as Aziraphale had presumed. It was just _many_ things. 

Dancing, movement, seemed to be the natural state of Crowley’s unearthly body. His body never stopped moving anyways, slithering back and forth, shoulders swinging above the fulcrum of his hips. He was waves of water, not the snake, Aziraphale decided. He thought briefly of Jonah, contained in the mouth of the whale, and decided Crowley had much more direction.

He felt compelled to move. His finger twitched as Crowley’s face was cupped by his partner’s hand. 

It was hard to define their relationship, the angel and the demon. Except for that it wasn’t. Crowley was simply the perfect balance to Aziraphale, which made him impossible to put into words. He was Aziraphale’s inspiration. He was not a small part of why Aziraphale loved the world so much. 

_To the world_ , as it turns out, had really meant, _to us_. But they were beyond nightingales now. 

The partner moved away from Crowley. Crowley did not seem to care. Aziraphale did.

Which was how he found himself behind Crowley, earning jumping muscles, a lean back to test the angel’s solidity. 

“As I understand, dancing usually requires two people,” Aziraphale murmured in his demon’s ear. 

“You feelin’ possessive then?” Aziraphale could hear the smile in Crowley’s voice. He could also feel the slight tremor in Crowley’s fingers as they laid themselves over Aziraphale’s. 

He didn’t respond to that question, either of them. Instead, because he truly had no idea what he was supposed to do in respect to dancing in a club (this was not the gavotte), he said, “Show me.” 

Crowley glanced over his shoulder, glasses sliding just far enough to see the golden light behind them, vague confusion on his face. 

“Move me.” 

Crowley knew how to do that. 

Now, this, Aziraphale decided, was a Holy Rite in and of itself. This, alone, was a reason to stop Armageddon. 

Aziraphale, despite being full of Grace, was not very graceful. Luckily for him, this modern style did not require much grace. He neither improved nor hindered the dance, simply letting Crowley lead.

By some miracle, Crowley’s old partner had decided to go home and was suddenly sober enough to be very safe in doing so. Aziraphale could not recall doing that. So he smiled into Crowley’s neck.

The demon shuddered lightly. 

This was not soaring leaps of ballet, nor was it a carefully choreographed sequence. This was natural movement, Atlas holding up the world, the world spinning on its axis, a supernova exploding and sending out materials to build new worlds. It was everything and nothing. Ineffable. 

“What are you doing?”

“Admiring,” Aziraphale breathed, hands sliding from hips to waist, “discovering.” Another breath. “Savoring” 

“Hedonist,” Crowley teased, but he pushed back against Aziraphale, reached behind him to feel for soft curls. Aziraphale had half a mind to bite at the demon’s neck. 

“Careful,” Crowley hissed. 

Apparently he’d just done it. 

“Or?” 

“We shall have to find somewhere more private.” 

“I am not opposed to that.” 

So Crowley moved the two of them, slowly, taking minute steps forward, trusting that Aziraphale would follow. It made Aziraphale smile, that his demon was trusting him so well. 

“Angel.”

“You’re doing well, dear boy.” 

The comment left his demon shivering. He soothed it with a hand moving up and down Crowley’s left side. 

When they were finally somewhere private (blessings to the owner of this club) Crowley was like a force of nature, moving Aziraphale across the room, facing him this time. Beautiful, like the storm that took the first day of man’s descent from the Garden, like the birds that graced the Garden with their colors and songs. 

“What was that?” Crowley hissed. 

“Beautiful,” Aziraphale responded, realizing he’d said it out loud. “Show me your eyes.” 

Crowley hesitated, concern flicking over his face. “I’d never lie—“ 

“Not concerned about that,” Aziraphale said, brushing aside the end of Crowley’s comment. “I like your eyes.” 

Aziraphale could see the insecurity in Crowley’s eyes. He could see the hesitation, the want to please, but fear of losing his security blanket. “Shall I?” Aziraphale asked. 

“Angel…”

“Say the word, when you’re ready,” he murmured. Instead, he busied himself with studying other parts of the demon. Feeling the softness of his hair, the roughness of his cheek where he’d let stubble grow just enough to make him look rugged. Pressing a kiss against the spot where his jaw met his neck, where his neck met his shoulders, where his palm dipped enough to create a small bowl perfectly sized for Aziraphale’s lips. 

“Angel,” Crowley hissed. Aziraphale paused. “Should— should I?” 

Aziraphale lifted his head and smiled. “I can. When you’re ready.” 

Crowley’s eyes were wide beneath the glasses. He nodded, just enough to be seen. “Crowley, darling,” Aziraphale murmured, “I do need confirmation.”

“Yes.” 

Aziraphale removed a hand from Crowley’s hip (dreadfully still, not dancing back and forth like he was used to), lifting it to Crowley’s face, brushing his fingers across the demon’s brow before gently taking the glasses off. Crowley remained still, not moving when Aziraphale leaned away to set the glasses on a conveniently placed side table. He was rewarded with a kiss. 

And then Aziraphale examined the sight before him. 

There was no doubt that Crowley was a creature of the night. Even if his demon hadn’t chosen to dress in all blacks, the sharp lines of his face, nearly-gaunt features, and glowing eyes would have given it away. But Aziraphale loved that glow, and the lines near the glow that had appeared after 6,000 years. (Really, they’d been there since about 4,000 years in, but still.) 

He stretched up, still pressed against the wall, and placed a kiss near the corner of each eye. Crowley’s eyes fluttered. “You can move, Crowley.” 

And move Crowley did. 

He shook when he moved. He shook when he gripped Aziraphale’s arm; he shook when he placed his mouth against Aziraphale’s skin; he shook when he told Aziraphale exactly where he wanted the angel's hands. 

Reasonable requests. 

Aziraphale did not mind the shaking. When Crowley was with the angel, the demon was more akin to the willow tree than the snake. The shaking was simply vulnerability; learning to let go, to surrender to what he wanted. The shaking meant Crowley was ready to ask and ready to learn. 

The pair had already learned the weeping willow. They’d waded through those waters, through grief, through loss. Now their tree grew. 

Aziraphale held his demon, let him shake until he stilled. He did some shaking of his own somewhere in there. Then he dragged them both to the bed (again, blessings to the owner of this particular establishment) and lay with Crowley, face to face, fingers brushing over features as if he hadn’t had the features memorized for eons. 

Crowley watched him hungrily, as if they were back to the first night of the rest of their lives. As if Crowley still wasn’t sure Aziraphale was there, was alive, wasn’t burned with the rest of the bookshop. As if he was afraid Aziraphale would one day wake and leave. Aziraphale smiled. 

“You’ve nothing to prove, my dear demon,” he murmured, letting his hands come to rest against Crowley’s throat and chest. “I’m here to stay.”

“I know,” Crowley murmured back. 

Aziraphale wasn’t sure Crowley did, but he was fine with saying that however many times Crowley needed it. 

His demon tucked his face into the angel’s neck, breathing more steadily now. Aziraphale moved the hand over his chest down and around his back. He was warm, still thrumming with the energy of the dance floor. 

“Do you want to be here or at home?” 

“You,” Crowley said gruffly against Aziraphale. 

“Will it put you off if I move us?” 

Crowley thought for a moment, then rasped a “no.” 

Aziraphale moved them (miracles? Who was keeping track of the miracles he performed anymore?) and lifted Crowley’s favorite quilt over them. His demon sighed happily. 

“Thank you, Aziraphale.” 

“Oh, always, my love,” Aziraphale smiled back, rubbing his hand up and down Crowley’s back. Crowley moved in closer.


End file.
